


Incubi

by fire_is_my_happy_place



Series: Myth Shorts [3]
Category: Christian Mythology - Fandom
Genre: Body Horror, F/M, Transformation, damnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 10:31:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4825715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fire_is_my_happy_place/pseuds/fire_is_my_happy_place
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An incubus responds to the unvoiced desires of an older woman with few ties to the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incubi

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, if anyone feels like turning this into a comic (and it'd be a fantastic erotic short), send me a request and I'd be happy to work with you. I can bang out short pieces like this all day long, and I'd be fun, I think, to make short erotic comics with someone.

When she opened her eyes, there was a hole in the night, a black that absorbed the small space of her room—lamp, pile of clothes she’d meant to fold, the alarm clock, a chest of drawers, all hidden behind a figure which may have been a man, or simply a fragment of nightmare. Lying there, in some dark silent hour of the night, she watched it incuriously. Her dreams had been odd of late: figures and faces, the sound of laughter girded by a hiss, sulfur and a flickering light cast as if a candle were being held behind a cloth. It was only when the figure moved that she sat up, fumbling for the switch of the lamp on her nightstand. A click yielded illumination, but not understanding. The hole in the night remained, and she sat stunned, watching it, waiting for the logic of dreams to resolve it into a symbol for anxiety.

Instead, when it resolved, it resolved as something which took her a moment to identify. The slit-pupiled eyes watched her closely, blink passing a membrane across them. The face, high cheekbones and sharp chin, was meant to smile perhaps, the lips sensual and pouting, eyes upturned, watching, blinking again with an unhurried flick. It had horns, petite and black, high on the forehead and surrounded by tumbling curls. The figure stepped forward, drawing her eyes to the coarse, curling hair that hugged its hips and down to the goat legs, small cloven hooves that were now standing on the underwear she’d thrown off before sleeping.

“I wondered when you would wake.” The voice itself, warm and velvety, had the familiar undertone of a hiss.

A dream, she thought, and perhaps a good one. The figure—a satyr, she corrected herself, or perhaps simply a demon—stepped forward again and sat, with a surprisingly ungraceful flop, on the foot of the bed and her feet. He had weight, or perhaps she simply dreamt that he did.

“This is one of my better dreams,” she said, hands loose on the blankets in her lap. “I wonder what you’ll turn out to be. My nightmares have been particularly sad lately.”

The satyr licked its lips, darting the long, forked tongue of a snake out to flicker and taste the air between them. “This is a dream,” he agreed. “Perhaps even one of your better ones. But what happens in your dreams?”

She sighed, brushing sleep-tangled hair behind her ear. “The nightmares are all what you might expect. I can’t find something, or I am homeless, or there are voices trapped behind a wall and I cannot find them but must.”

“And the better dreams?”

The satyr’s hands were long-fingered, and they curled around the edge of the mattress. She watched them moving, restlessly, before answering. “Some nights, I dream of finding something rare, of being famous, or perhaps just of being young again.”

“Surely those aren’t your best dreams.”

“No. I have others, but I try to ignore them.”

The satyr crawled forward to lie beside her, head on the pillow that had been empty for far too long. “Why don’t you lay down here and tell me about them?”

She shrugged. “Why not? One dream is like the next in the end. You wake and they are gone.”

Curling on her side, she faced the strange, yellow-orange eyes, watching the membrane flick across them. “I dream of sex—faces and bodies fitting into mine, of the moment atop a man or woman when you can see briefly into their desires, when they are too enraptured to stop you. I dream of finding them honest, and honest in what they wish for me. Sometimes I dream of ropes, of bonds that hold the skin so tight and fine that not even desire can escape them.” She looked down at the tracks of age on her body. “Desire escapes all bonds, does it not, borne away with time?”

The satyr smiled once then, and raised his fingers to her face, turning it back to him. “Suppose,” he said softly, “that it does not have to escape. Suppose there was a way to trap desire. What would you do with it?”

His fingers were calloused, roughened by some labor, or perhaps they simply came that way. She sighed into them. “If there were a way to trap desire, I would live there if I could—to slip one body for the next, tall or short, old or young, pretty and ugly, to be anything and everything for the joy of watching a body under mine and knowing I could make them respond.”

His fingers slid down the side of her face and she closed her eyes, letting them coax from her remembered hope in the form of desire. “Suppose,” he said, breath of cloves and sulfur on her face, “that you could do that. Suppose you could slip your skin, to make real the desires that shape a personality in the subtle form of your flesh. What then?”

It came as no surprise to her that at some point, while she contemplated that statement, the clothes she’d fallen into bed wearing seemed to have evaporated—dreams were terse that way. She was surprised to find that the body pressed against hers had coarse hair, that it tickled and pricked her. The long fingered hands had curled around her hips, pulling her to him. She opened her eyes to see the orange flames of his eyes, the slit pupil wide, lips parted with a smile.

“I would be more honestly myself, I think,” she said. “To be able to make real the pressures that I sense like currents in others.”

The satyr leaned forward to press his overripe lips to hers, the forked tongue subtle between her lips—tickling and wrapping around her tongue, gently tugging to hear her sigh. She reached out in the kiss to touch the sharp, rough surface of the horns and pricked her finger. When she stiffened, he laughed into her mouth and pulled back. Reaching up, he captured her hand and wrapped his tongue around the finger, bearing away the first fat droplet. “If you like,” he said, voice low and warm, “I can be anyone. Male, female, old, young, human or inhuman.”

“This is,” she said, “the strangest dream I’ve ever had.”

He shifted, rolling them both so that he lay atop her. “If it’s a dream,” he said, “it’s one of your better ones.”

The fur of his thighs melted, leaving long, human legs which lay on either side of hers. As she watched, the split pupil shrank, leaving only the small holes in the eyes of any man. The horns, however, remained. He opened his mouth and stuck out a human tongue—thick, wet, and warm. She realized with a start that the face was recognizable from statues in the museums of the Vatican, from statues all over the world, a pouting male beauty both inhuman and idealized. He tilted his hips, drawing her attention to something no statue could have, fever hot and ultimately human. She took a sharp breath and he chuckled, the hiss that lay under his baritone like the sound of distant ocean waves.

“A dream,” he repeated. “A dream of a particular sort.”

“I liked you better,” she murmured, “the way you were.”

At that, he laughed—loud and free, his belly moving against hers and rocking her. She once again looked up into the flames of his pupils, coarse hair tickling and poking her thighs. The warm, stiff pressure against her, however, remained. She reached up again to his face and he quieted, laying a kiss on each palm.

“I don’t suppose,” she said quietly, “that it is possible to trap desire.”

“In a way,” he said. “A particular way. One must trap a dreamer of a particular kind of dream.”

“And when you trap them?”

He smiled, teeth sharp and white, and his tongue darted out to tickle along the side of her neck. Wordless, he played it along her to find where she would shiver and applied pouting lips and teeth to it, testing with increasing pressure where she might ask him to stop. She did not, the fire of it lancing through her like a welcome friend and setting a thousand nerve endings to sing a song of sparks—instead she moaned, turning her head to let him take the jumping cord of her pulse and do with it what he would. He raised his mouth bloody.

She opened her legs then, the fur between them tickling as he slid down, dragging the long split of his tongue. “A particular kind of dreamer,” he whispered, face between her thighs, “and a particular kind of dream.”

The tongue was just as long as she thought it might be, sliding into her to undulate, pressure and a muscular writhe pressing here and there, seeking the shiver that travelled up her breasts as a hunter might, as if it hid in her body. He flushed it out, patiently stalking it until the cloves and sulfur on his breath were doused in the smell of sweet salt. She held her legs open, trembling with tension, afraid and caught up in a particular kind of dream. When she cried out, he replaced tongue with fingers, scissoring and filling, and nipped the inside of her thighs.

She looked down at him, fear and the red tinge of pleasure marking her face, and then reached out again, pulling him up to kiss her, to taste the sweet salt, the spice, and the bitter sulfur on his lips. “A particular kind of dreamer,” she whispered, “and a particular kind of dream.”

“Do you want to trap desire,” he asked, head held to one side, lips and chin slick with her.

In response, she spread her arms, desire fluttering with his fingers inside her.

It was not a surprise, when he slid himself inside her, that she had needed the preparation—if he had a cock, it was a terrifying large thing. She did not look. Instead, she closed her eyes for the wet sensation of friction, the feeling of being filled entirely and utterly, with the anticipation of pain to come. The fur had continued, and the presence inside her had prickles of its own. He grunted once, far in as he could go, and looked down at her.

“A particular kind of dreamer,” he murmured, “and a particular kind of dream that has a particular kind of end.”

She smiled. “I’ve read my mythology.”

“I promise,” he said, “you haven’t read the tales in hell.”

Her eyes grew serious and he moved then, girth and length stealing her thoughts and leaving the wet cavern of her mouth tilted back in the pool of her hair. She would have spoken, if her body had not been a line of current, a thousand spangling lights spilling out into the dark, brain afire with the slow advance and retreat of his body in hers.

“We tell a tale in hell,” he murmured. “A tale of how we are born.” He shuddered then, trembling for a moment at the wet pressure around him, and touched her eyelids with a hand. “In heaven, before we fell, we watched Lilith created and marveled. Some of us fell simply watching her defy Adam, filled with a desire that sexless angels ought never have.”

He could feel her moving around him, helpless little spasms sucking at him as he moved at first small, letting her body pour liquid around him and open. At that, he touched the tender skin between her breasts and it left a burning coal behind.

“When they fell, they followed her, made incarnate by falling. In perfect innocence, she opened her arms to them—the first woman, the first to open her legs and find heaven between them.” He moaned and she echoed him, a choked noise pushed from her by the overwhelming pressure, the heat and wet slick fullness inside her.

“She bore them sons and daughters before she died,” he murmured, and reached down to slide her nipple into his mouth, curling his long tongue around it and tugging it up. He watched the first break over her, bending her spine up into his chest, and smiled as she cried out, hoarse.

“We were never innocent. No matter what the priests tell anyone, we never want the innocent.” He rolled them both over to see her shudder in pain as he sank deeper into her. “We want something else.”

He moved more roughly now, to see her twitch and sway, the music of agony coming out of her up-tilted mouth, the sparks now wildfires and her nerves aflame. He reached out and left a searing hand-print across her belly. “Quod est inferius,” he murmured, “est sicut quod est superius.”

He hissed, the sibilant language of hell pouring from him for a moment, tension crawling up his spine with sharp feet. “Quod similis intra,” he murmured,“tui fieri.”

“A particular kind of dreamer,” she whispered, tears coursing down her cheeks.

“And a particular kind of dream,” he answered, shuddering, and poured himself into her, the heat of hell and the first woman.

She screamed as it burned through her, desire made into a substance, trapped in flesh and belonging to neither heaven nor earth—the nerves once sparks, then flames, now the forge of god hammering down, changing the complex chords and music of the body until she rang with a single chord.

When she opened her split-pupiled eyes for the first time, he smiled. She considered him, looking down at sweat she could feel as well as smell—incense and smoke, the wet flame of desire. He moved in her, finally able to move with the undulation of the damned, and she gasped.

He flickered for a moment, and lay a human man. Seeing how it was done, she flickered, absorbing horns and split tongue and fur. Together, they assumed shape after shape, his body under hers, his fingers—now thin, now thick, now short, now long—on her hips. The orgasm rose in her like honey, thick and sweet, the stinging pain of cloves in it like a spice that drew the mind back again. They cried out the last time together, her fingernails raking bloody furrows in him that closed like water.

When she pulled herself from him, she noticed that the bed was singed. Something very like a shell lay in it, all around them—leather, desiccated by time.

In the tongue of hell, she asked him what came next. In the tongue of hell, he answered.

They went hunting.

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that demons and demonic forces are actually shared in many mythological traditions. However, this particular story partakes in a specifically Christian tradition for them, and specifically in Dark Ages mythology about how they came into being. As such, it is a story of Christian mythology, though it shares considerable features with many other mythological traditions. Christian mythology from this period borrowed liberally from Greek mythology and made devils of Greek nature figures, so if it seems familiar, blame it on the Dark Ages.


End file.
